Cool Blue
by MinionRipley
Summary: One day they'll meet again. A song prompt fic.


Tagged by kcoolwhatever on Tumblr for a flash fic based on/inspired by "Cool Blue" by The Japanese House. And here I am… nearly a week late. Oops. So much for the "flash" part, I guess!

Tags: F!Hawke/Isabela, songfic, angst, fluff

Cool Blue

Isabela looks out across a vast and sunless sea.

The ocean is a glinting wash of black ink, the stars catching on the waves and the silver glow of the waning moon a memory on the horizon. The wind whispers against the sails, a gentle breeze like a lover's kiss, tugging at the tangles in her hair and pulling at the band of red around her arm. She tastes sea salt on her lips, feels the heat of the day's sun lingering on her skin, hears the ship groan against the water. Familiar, like the creak of the rigging, of the daggers at her back.

But beyond that distant horizon, too far to see anywhere but in her mind's eye, her home lies in the heart of a restless little bird.

xxx

" _You don't have to go," she says, in the quiet moments of a sunset-hued, peaceful afterglow._

Peaceful _. She thinks she will never get used to it._

 _But Hawke shakes her head into the silk pillow with a sigh, her eyes already slipping away to the letter on the desk. Isabela cups her face and turns her back, unwilling to relinquish her, not just yet. Outside the cabin, the sea whispers sweet things against the hull of the ship and the dock beside it. Promises of another day, of another adventure, of more moments like these._

 _But she watches, her heart heavier than she can bear in her throat, as Hawke presses a kiss into her palm and already knows her answer._

 _The sea can't keep a bird that needs to fly._

xxx

There are letters, sometimes. Too many at times, not enough at others.

Never enough.

News of the Inquisition, of the search for the Wardens, of Corypheus. Hawke writes of near everything – never good at keeping secrets, her little bird – but mostly she writes of missing her. Of the curve of her cheek, of the red of her lips, the way the blue sash at her hips parts so easily beneath her fingers.

On overcast days, Isabela takes the letters from the trunk beside her bed and holds them close. Against her nose, against her chest. The rain patters outside on the ship deck, slicking the air with a chill, and she tries to imagine that she can still smell the faintest trace of her, of forests and sun, that she can still feel her in her arms, always so warm. A sweet breath fanning across her cheek, fingers twined with hers.

The letters weigh on her like an ocean, too deep, too heavy to breathe. And yet they are never enough.

xxx

 _Winter sweeps through Kirkwall not with snow and ice but with a howl that rolls down every street and alley. Like a lost and hungry monster, Isabela thinks, and she has seen too many with Hawke. Spiders, drakes, demons, undead, ghosts. She could have_ really _done without the ghosts._

 _But on the days they lie together on the sofa, pulled up close to the blazing hearth in the estate, she knows without a doubt it's all been worth it._

 _They doze on the smell of burning alder and ashes, soft murmurs kissed against her collarbone as Isabela draws her fingers through the soft strands of Hawke's hair. A deeper sleep pulls at her, luring her with visions of distant shores, but she does not take it, wanting more to memorize this moment._

 _Because she knows it won't last. Because she's a liar, a thief, a snake, no matter what smirk she wears._

 _But Hawke makes her believe it could anyway._

xxx

It's several months – years, eons, it feels like – when Isabela sees her again. The dark swath of hair against the bone-white stone, a colorless cape thrown over her armor as she speaks to a Grey Warden.

 _Weisshaupt_ , she thinks. _What a disappointment._

Really, not even a _bar_.

But what _is_ there trumps any tavern, and she can't help smiling despite the boiling sun and the seething sands that whip across her skin. Foolish, a younger Isabela would have called her, giving her heart and sea away to a girl too idealistic for her own good. But she's too light, too free to care.

She thinks, perhaps, she could learn to fly like her.

"Isabela?" Hawke cries, her eyes wide as they see her. She runs, the forgotten Warden behind her and tears on her face. "Maker, what are you doing here?"

Isabela blinks back her own tears as she throws her arms around her, feeling her heart grow whole again.

"Oh, sweetness," she says. "It's no fun without you."


End file.
